Joan Houlihan

In Cancer
Strung days, a puncture
and the insect entered
You told me: All dies. For this, we're intended.
Strung then by peonies'
heft and lush waste
bent-headed
I hid from the day.
Inside, the walls speckle.
Stark, kitchen-lit
flies pock the table
black as dropped seeds.
Though I go slowly
they startle—
bodies alive
with unshuttable eyes.
A simple swat exhausts me.
Let me forget. Let them flee
death. Their thrum is harmless.
Our summer's begun
as the iris rises from sword-
shaped leaves, its veiny sac
a purse of grief.